Uncharted: Secret of Avalon
by Cody Fox
Summary: Nate Drake's hunt for Avalon, the mythical resting place of King Arthur
1. Chapter 1: The Art of the Kill

The speedometer crept over the 100 mark. _Damn, these guys are fast,_ Nate thought. Well past 100 now. People weren't the only danger, though. The cliffs to his right were like a Niagra Falls made of stone, spilling over into the Pacific. The wheels were skidding dangerously, spewing rocks over the ledge. Suddenly, he noticed a face at the window. "Get off my car!" he yelled, swerving madly to try and throw them off. He heard cries of pain and surprise all around him, but could also hear the grunts of someone straining with effort. Someone who was still on the Jeep. His left window shattered, and he heard a curse. Then, there was the sound of a pistol cocking against his head. Nate suddenly had a thought, a thought that would inevitably kill him. He swung the wheel hard to the right, and the Jeep began to skid. Right off the cliff. "Really shoulda thought this through!" he yelled, and then there was nothing. No sound. Except for a far-off, keeing scream and the roar of the sea below. _Y'know, this is actually kinda cool_, thought Nate. _I could use some peace and quiet._

Nate sipped the last dregs of wine out of his glass. A decent Cabernet, he decided, but scolded himself inwardly for not choosing a Merlot._ "Souhaitez-vous prêt à payer maintenant, monsieur?" _ the waiter asked. Would you like to pay now, sir? Nate wasn't paying attention. He was staring at an African man in a suit, focusing on the funny bulge near his left pocket. And his face, which was turned directly towards his. "Oh, um, _oui, bien sûr" "Bien, Je reviendrai avec le contrôle" _Good, I'll come right back with the check. The gunman was advancing. "_Non, non, je suis en retard pour quelque chose. Puis-je seulement le salaire,sil vous plaît, parce que je dois vraiment y aller!" _No, no, I'm late for something. Can I please just pay now, because I really have to get going! He was less than a yard away. Nate pressed the fifty euros into the confused waiter's hand. He strode deliberately toward the gate of the restaurant. The gunman was wlking in the same pressed, deliberate form. Nate looked back, and saw the gleam of a silenced pistol in the man's hand. Nate could play the scene out in his head. He would screw something up, wander down an alley or dead end, where only the drunk and seedy of Paris lived. No one who witnessed his shooting would care, and no one who would care would know. A car backfired, and life goes on as it always did. Not so good. Nate broke into a run. Confused and angry shouts of _Regarde où tu vas!_ or _fils de pute! _ rained down on him, but he took no notice. They broke out of the quiet streets into a teeming intersection. Nate heard a muffled _crack_!, and saw a hole in the streetlight next to him. He tore across a crosswalk, getting angry honks, yells and gestures from the drivers. And then, as he had predicted, he screwed up. He ran blindy into an alley, pinning himself against a wall. Then, he noticed a pipe in the wall. He scampered up rapidly, bullets exploding all around him. And he was running across the rooftops of Paris, jumping over pipes and vaulting over chimneys. The killer didn't bother with a silencer now, and Nate could hear sharp cracks smashing through the air all around him. Nate suddenly skidded to a stop. There was a gap between the rowhouses, much too far to jump. The gunman was pointing the pistol straight at him, and he was slowly backing towards the edge. Then he heard a _bang!_, to loud and explosive to be a pistol. The killer fell, blood flowing from his chest. "Godammit, kid, I really can't leave you alone for a minute!"


	2. Chapter 2: Revealing the Past

"Oh my God, Sully! The hell are you doing in Paris?" "Stalking you!" Sully replied. "Who was this guy?" "Dunno", Nate mumbled, bending down to check for a driver's license. Finding a wallet, he pulled out a small plastic card. "Leonard Williams" Nate muttered. "Thirty-three years old, born in the US." Then, Nate saw a slip of yellowed paper sticking out from behind a credit card. It simply bore the words "Insula Pomorum que Fortunata uocatur". Nate ran the words over his tongue. "Insula Pomorum que Fortunata uocatur", "Insula Pomorum que Fortunata uocatur". "Insula Pomorum…" Sully said under his breath. "Wait, I've heard that script before. You ever heard of Isidore de Seville, kid?"

"Yeah" Nate replied. "He was a medieval Spanish scholar, authority on the Arthurian legends. Why?" "Well, kid, you're not the only history buff here. Geoffrey of Monmouth pretty much owed his life to this guy, especially in his texts on King Arthur's death and Avalon. And in these texts, he called Avalon the exact same thing. Insula Pomorum que Fortunata uocatur. Translated from Latin, it reads 'The Fortunate Isle'. Apparently, the island produces everything itself, people who find their way there live hundreds of years". Sully cut off suddenly, and gestured to the dead killer. "So, why was he after you?" "Because I think I've been following his boss.

This guy's after something, Sully. Something big. Everywhere I go, he's packed up and ran, but he's always left behind a few maps, or a writing by some old historian. Nothing worth keeping, nothing legible". "Nate, why are you doing this?" Sully asked, exasperated. 'Why is this a bad thing, what's he doing?" "It's because he knew my father" Nate answered. "They were both archaeologists, and they had found something. His partner, his name was Aaron Koplich. He was a second-generation Austrian-American. He was a real bitch some of the time, especially when he was drunk. I remember that they wouldn't tell me what they'd found, that I was too young." "So you're saying this is their find? Avalon?" Sully asked, taking a puff on his cigar. "I think so" Nate replied.

"Anyway, they were in an airport, about to board a plane for D.C. They were going to unveil Avalon to the world. Koplich was in it for the press, the money. A couple minutes before they were about to go through security, my father turned away. He told Koplich that he knew what he wanted, and that he didn't want to unveil the site just for money. My father had all the information, Koplich was doomed without him. He suddenly took on an almost inhuman rage. He took out a gun, and shot my father. His last words before he was detained were 'I'll show them! If my last dying breath are used for the truth, I will be satisfied! None of you will stand in the way of destiny!" "I still don't see why you think what he's doing with this find is wrong" Sully said. "Sully, this man is criminally insane!" Nate yelled, getting up off the grimy rooftop. "I don't know what he originally wanted with Avalon, and I don't know what he's going to do with it, but this man killed my father, and he will pay. I swear on my father's grave that he will pay." Nate stared defiantly at the sun, setting below the Paris skyline.

Sully sat down beside him. "So, why're you here, kid?" "Another hideout" Nate replied, not looking at his friend. "Where is it?" Sully asked. "586 Bastille Street. Near here." "So, what're we waiting for, kid? Let's risk our lives for an ancient treasure that lies shrouded in mystery. It has no known location, and there is no actual proof that it's real, and lets get shot at a couple hundred times while we're at it." "You know the drill", Nate said, grinning. He ran across the building, and climbed down the fire escape. "Slow the hell down, kid!" Sully gasped. "This cigar doesn't do anything great for my lungs!"


	3. Chapter 3: One Hundred To One

The guard's name was Patrick O'Connor. He had immigrated from Ireland when he was a child with a neglectful stepfamily. Not able to bribe a decent job from anyone, he was forced to keep living in a crowded row house with the same abusive stepfamily. His favorite pastime was to drink away his sorrows at a local bar. And, conveniently for Nate and Sully, he had drunk away a few too many of his sorrows before returning to his post to be a very good guard. Nate, who had been crouching behind a table, pulled him over and broke his neck, and stole his AK-47 in one swift motion. "My gun, dumbass" he whispered. He jammed a silencer over the end of the gun, and continued on towards the rickety steps in front of him. He carefully opened the door at the top of the steps, stuck his head through the crack, and then slowly eased the rest of his body in. Shadow peeled away from shadow, and he was punched hard in the stomach. Nate fell heavily to his knees, his breath leaving him and his eyes squeezed tight in pain. The gun clattered to the floor. He heard a muffled "Goddamn it!" and guessed that the same thing was happening to Sully. Suddenly, a familiar face was inches from his. It had cold blue eyes, close- cropped gray hair and a distinctive scar from nose to ear. It was the face of Aaron Koplich. "Nate Drake" he said, an amused smile on his face. "How you've grown. Bind him!" Two guards bound his wrists and hands, another had the AK-47 he had dropped trained on him. "You son of a bitch!" Nate screamed, struggling against his captors. I'll kill you! I'll-" And the world exploded into a shower of stars, sparkling against an endless night.

Nate woke up on a stool. He saw Sully, crumpled in a heap on the floor. _Good old Sully._ Nate thought. _Must have taken a hell of a beating_. He felt the cold metal of a pistol pressed up against his head. Koplich was sitting in a chair across from him. "Hello, Nate" Koplich said, coolly. "Bastard!" Nate screamed. The gun was brought up, and smashed into Nate's skull. He leaned forward, trying to stop his head spinning. Spitting blood, Nate brought his head up to face Koplich. The madman looked on, his face completely without emotion. "You are lucky you look so much like your father." Koplich said. "If I had not recognized you, you surely would be lying on the floor of a Paris warehouse with a bullet in your head. Trust me, though, you will end up dead at my hands. But not yet. First, I wish to test you. Do you have your father's strength, his brain, his skills of deduction? We shall see." "Where am I?" Nate asked. "Bangkok" Koplich answered. "City of the Deity. And who knows? Maybe this deity will be merciful with you. But somehow, I doubt he takes kindly to strangers." And Nate was pushed out into a pascifist's hell. An illegal Thai bare- knuckle martial arts ring.

Nate observed the fight with growing horror. Both combatants were using Aikido, largely considered the most brutal martial art form. He had arrived just in time for the start of a fight. Many hands were waving bets at a bewildered Thai man, who could barely calculate the amounts before the fight started. The defending champion was toweling the sweat off his bare back. Even from the outside of the ring, Nate could see the lust to cause pain to another human in the man's eyes. They had a glint in them, and Nate was reminded of Koplich. Then the fight started. The champion easily ducked a jab that would surely have smashed all the bones in his face. He then popped up, quicker than Nate would have thought possible, clapped his hands on the man's ears. He reeled back, shrieking in pain. The champion dashed forward, grasped his opponent by the shoulders, and drove his knee straight into the man's solar plexus. The man was wheezing now, giving everything he had to not collapse on the floor. Racing forward again, the champion smashed his knee upward into the man's face, and then plowed his heel into the man's abdomen. His opponent collapsed onto the ring floor, wheezing. The fight was over in less than two minutes. The crowd cheered, not for the fighter, but in excitement at the amount of money they would win at the end of the night. The champion was strutting around the ring occasionally pausing to give his opponent a vicious kick in the face. The loser was lying on the ground, blood pouring from his nose and mouth. His eyes were glassy and dazed, as if in shock. There could, Nate noted, be permanent brain damage. He felt cold metal jab into his back, and realized that the man with the gun had been behind him the whole fight. He was slowly being led into the center of the room. Into the ring. He stepped wearily up into the ring, removed his shirt, and observed his opponent. He was breathing hard, sweat pouring down his back, and he was staring directly into Nate's eyes. The man threw down the towel. The gun went off. The fight started.

The man in front of Nate didn't give him time to react. He seemed to flit across the ring, and suddenly he was right in front of Nate. His fist had been out in front of him, and it slammed directly into Nate's stomach. He bent double immediately, wheezing to suck the little air he had back into his lungs. The champion took this opportunity to aim a knee at Nate's face, but he was ready. Nate caught the man's knee, twisted his leg around, and stomped viciously on the back of the man's knee. The man crumpled, howling. Nate was happy he had watched the first fight, as he had learned the way the man fought. It was simple: stun, incapacitate, and finish the fight. Nate's opponent came at him again. Nate immediately cupped his hand. He stood at the edge of the ring, waiting for the opportune moment. When the man was almost on him, Nate thrust his hand forward. It drove towards the man like a sledgehammer, straight into his solar plexus. He stepped back, struggling for breath. Shaking his head, he gave way to his rage at this little man who had stepped into the ring and completely humiliated him. The man jumped at Nate, howling inhumanly. The crowd roared. They loved this kind of thing, to see a man snap when he was pushed past his limits. Nate almost grinned. His opponent's rage had blinded him, and he had lost the control that he had kept with him in the last fight. Nate sidestepped the man easily, grabbed his hand, and slammed him onto the hard ring floor. The man lifted his head up, spitting blood, when Nate smashed it back down again with was foot. Again, the fight was over. The crowd has silent. Something was wrong. Nate turned the man's unconscious body over. And then he saw it. The chest was not rising and falling. Nate's heart began to race as he pressed two fingers to the man's wrist. No pulse. The realization dawned on the crowd. "He was my brother!" a man in the crowd screamed. He began to run toward Nate, but a group of men was moving purposefully toward him. One of them caught the man by the wrist, and put handcuffs on them. _Oh, shit_ Nate thought. A man approached him. "Police" he said in accented English, while withdrawing a pair of handcuffs from his belt. "You come with us" And, without warning, Koplich's henchman stepped out from the doorway. "He's coming with us" The Thai policeman looked confusedly at the man in the doorway. Taking the opportunity, Nate vaulted over the ropes. He tore off into the sticky Thai night, with two opposing sides firing on him.


	4. Chapter 4

Alright, I don't love where this is going so I'm abandoning it. But, don't be surprised if I get bored and update it.


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